Even as Mark explained as much as he knew and made it clear that this was no practical joke, they couldn’t believe what we were telling them. As it began to sink in, they were consumed by shock and anger.
“What the hell was she thinking?” Mark’s dad asked. “How could this possibly happen?”
“I know,” Mark said, tears in his eyes. “We’re so, so sorry. I thought it might never come out, so I was covering and hoping for the best, but I’m convinced it’s going to happen soon.”
My parents took it much harder. They lived in a small town, where everybody knew everybody’s business as it was, and they would never be able to escape the humiliation I caused them, which is something I regret to this day. Plus, they still lived in Wisconsin, where I was well known, and they were very aware how much this story would impact the area. It would be front-page news. And they were as concerned about their image, and our family’s image, as they’d always been. Plus, in many ways, I was still their perfect little girl.
“That is not you,” my dad said.
“I know, Dad,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“We’re going to bed soon,” he said. “I’ll tell your mom in the morning. I don’t want her worrying about this tonight. Where are you? Are you safe? Is Mark with you?”
“Yes, Dad,” I said.
Still certain he knew what was best for me, he told me in no uncertain terms that I should dye my hair, change my name, take Kylie out of school, and move to another country. Without responding, I hung up the phone, realizing that they weren’t going to be any help at all. All of this was going to be hard enough on Kylie as it was, and Mark and I didn’t want to uproot her life on top of everything else. Mark wanted to try to keep things as normal as possible for her. I could see him really stepping up, and I was so grateful to him for it.
Two weeks later, on December 20, we were staying at the guesthouse at Mark’s parents’ house, getting ready for Christmas. I woke up early and did my normal morning routine, going for a run down the hill from their house and along the Pacific Coast Highway to the Starbucks where I liked to get a cup of tea and a blueberry scone. I was standing in line to place my order when my phone started buzzing. It was Mark. “You’d better get home right now,” he said.
“Why?” I asked, still lingering in the innocent place.
“The story just broke,” he said.
As we were talking, the man in front of me looked up from his smartphone, then down at whatever he was reading, and then up at me again, with an amused expression on his face.
I turned and walked out without getting anything and ran the three miles back to my in-laws’ house as quickly as I could. I was completely numb for the rest of the day, barely aware of what was happening on the periphery of my attention, where Mark was doing his best to sort through the hundreds of e-mails that were pouring into our joint account, including interview requests from everyone from CNN to Dr. Phil and a meeting opportunity with the porn company Vivid, as well as an incredible amount of hate mail, deleting the most hurtful notes before I could read them. He didn’t always succeed, though, and I stumbled upon messages that said I was a slut and whore, that I was going to hell, that I should kill myself like my brother had. Meanwhile, in the main house, my mother-in-law obsessively watched hours of coverage on Fox and CNN, where topless images of me in sexy poses were being shown again and again and again. I remained bizarrely calm.
When I woke up the next morning, the calm was gone. The darkest thoughts possible ran through my mind on a continual loop: I was a whore. I had shamed my parents, my husband, our family, my entire state. It would be better for everyone if I were dead. I didn’t say any of this out loud to Mark, but I think he could tell. I kept sneaking off to read the nasty e-mails on my phone. Finally, he came up behind me, smiling as well as he could.
“Hiking?” he said. “I think we need to get out.”
Leaving Kylie with his parents, we climbed into the car and drove down the hill toward our usual hiking spot, twenty-five miles away, at Sycamore Canyon. It was another perfect Southern California day, the sunshine glinting off the blue waves of the Pacific Ocean, but none of it could reach me or lighten my mood. Mark said something that set me off, and I went ballistic. My hypersensitivity was at an all-time high. My entire world was caving in. I wanted someone to blame. As far as I was concerned, he was the real problem. He was trying to control me and force me to stop escorting, which I didn’t want to do. He had driven me to this point, and I hated him. As we screamed at each other for the next fifteen minutes, he turned the car around, since hiking was clearly out of the question. I wanted to get away from him, and I pulled myself farther and farther away, toward the other side of the car, but I couldn’t put enough distance between us. I wanted this nightmare to end. I wanted to stop everything. I choked on the tears pouring down my face, great sobs shaking my body, nothing inside me but pain. My mind was spinning with a single thought: end it all, end it all, end it all.
A vision came into my mind: I saw myself opening the car door and hitting the asphalt as the car behind us slammed into my body, flipping me over and over, my arms and legs flailing. It could all be over in a second. All I had to do was release the door handle and just fall out. Please let me die. I leaned away even farther from Mark, pressing my head against the window, and reached for the handle. I could no longer hear the sound of Mark’s voice. I just wanted out. Mark turned to look at me and, seeing what I was doing, slammed the brakes. I flew into the dashboard, the force of the impact bringing me back to the present moment.
“What the fuck?” he yelled.
All I could do was let my head fall into my hands and keep crying. Mark pulled the car over onto the side of the road.
“Should I take you to the hospital?” he said, sounding dazed and confused. “Where do I take you?”
In January, I was finally diagnosed with bipolar disorder.
Epilogue
A WORK IN PROGRESS
It is a crisp, fall morning. I dropped Kylie off at school about an hour ago, and now I’m ready for my time. I look forward to this time, when I can move in the way my body knows best, wind in my hair, finding the rhythm that feels as natural as breathing.
I run now for the freedom it gives me. I run because it feels good. I run because it is good for me—for my heart and for my head. But it isn’t all I do. I am still constantly in motion; in my running shoes, on my bike, on my yoga mat, exercise is my drug of choice now.
In these moments, on the path with my feet hitting the ground, I feel peaceful. I am myself, living the life I want, not the one that others expect from me or the one that I created out of fantasy and confusion. My life now isn’t perfect. Far from it. But it is a life of contentment, and for this I am incredibly grateful.
I am grateful for the little moments in life, like walking my daughter to school, sharing a meal together as a family, dancing to our favorite songs in the kitchen while we bake chocolate chip cookies. I am grateful that the love of my life stood by me through the destruction that was my illness. If I’m honest, I wonder if maybe he cared about me more than I cared about myself. I almost destroyed our family, and myself, but Mark stayed, finding the strength to do so once I received my bipolar diagnosis, and he dedicated himself to learning as much as he could about my illness and supporting me to get better. And when the time came to start again, he was the one who told me that I had to forgive myself first before I could move on. Without him, I never would have found that courage. Without his love, I might never have been diagnosed. I might still be stuck in my cycle of risky behavior, always pushing for more, more, more. I might even have pushed too far. Bipolar disorder needs an outlet. Sex, drugs, alcohol, danger, adrenaline—these all feed the mania that sets a bipolar brain on fire.
Being diagnosed wasn’t enough to turn off my mania. The year that followed my diagnosis was actually the most challenging of all, for my family and for me. Even when I was prescribed Lamictal, the drug that finally qui
eted my mind, it took months for us to find the right dosage. Until then, I self-medicated with alcohol and Xanax and when nothing else gave me the sensation I craved, I occasionally slipped up and resorted to my previous coping mechanisms. Finally, with the help of a skilled mental health team, we identified the triggers that were setting me off: my job, my family, and certain aspects of my marriage. We cleaned up the wreckage I had created, paying the taxes I owed for my escorting and finally making it clear to all of my clients that my time as an escort was over forever. We made a plan to manage my exposure to my triggers, so I would be set off as little as possible. And we found better ways for me to achieve the high I craved, including intense exercise and travel, often paired together, such as a challenging hike in a beautiful new locale.
With Mark’s support, I stopped feeding the flames, and I reached deep down into my soul to find the true source of my pain and to begin to heal it. With Mark’s example of unconditional love as their guide, Mark’s parents also stood by me with so much love and support, as did most of my family, many of our friends, a good amount of people in Madison, as well as some in the international mental health and running communities. I know it wasn’t easy for my parents to come to terms with what I’d done. At first, they focused on the way my illness had manifested itself, instead of my illness. But, recently, they have begun to understand more and offer their encouragement, which means so much to me. When I consider the wealth of love and support in my life, I feel so very fortunate and grateful.
It is not easy to admit you have a problem, that you are sick. Denial grabs hold and clings for dear life. Denial can ruin lives as much as mental illness can. I know that now. The denial in my own family, the way we looked away from the very truth before us, was destructive. My parents can’t be blamed for what happened to Dan, or to me, of course. They did the best they could. We all did. Our mental illness was up to the algebra of genetics, our unlucky equation. But treatment was and is available. So many people are left untreated, even today when there is much aid available to them. You don’t have to hide or be ashamed for being sick now. You can reach out and be helped, and thank God for that.
As I run, I feel my muscles loosen, stretching and contracting from memory. It was once my running that made me a role model, even though I had little desire for the attention or that burden. I came to hate the thing I loved most, the thing I was born to do. But now, I have a new purpose, new goals that have nothing to do with crossing the finish line first. I want to share my story. I want to have courage and keep fighting. I want to show the world, but mostly my daughter, that you have to live your life for yourself, and that with love and help you can claw your way back from a dark place. I hope my daughter never goes toward darkness, but if she does I’ll be there to tell her that shame and guilt are wasted emotions. The shame and guilt that I wrestled with kept me stuck for a long time. And while I am deeply sorry for the hurt I caused my family, I know that I didn’t do it out of malice or lack of care. I had no other choice but to act as I did. That is the power of bipolar disorder.
No one asks for mental illness, but now I see my long battle as a gift. I would never have gone down this road if I weren’t bipolar, but if I weren’t bipolar I wouldn’t have found my voice to live my truth and tell my story, and I wouldn’t be here now to help others to know that they are not alone.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My incredibly compassionate daughter, Kylie, who gave me the strength to get well with her openness and ability to understand mental illness with such a loving heart.
Mark, the most amazing man I know, for not giving up on me, and reminding me that shame is a waste of time and energy.
My parents, who didn’t always fully understand me but always loved me. I love you dearly.
My in-laws, Darrell and Sandy, for being there when I needed you most.
Everyone at Dey Street and HarperCollins, for your belief in my story.
Carrie Thornton, for her support, and for always telling me that my book can help so many people.
My agents, Nena and Jan, for reaching out to me, and for displaying such great patience, something I am so grateful to have learned through this process.
Sarah Tomlinson, for her patience with a bipolar girl trying to tell her story. Thanks for being a huge part of my journey toward recovery. I am very lucky to have you in my life.
Dr. Aurelia Nattiv, my doctor at UCLA, who was there for me in my darkest time and has been a dear friend.
Dr. Dan Begel, my psychiatrist in Santa Monica, who diagnosed me and helped to find the right medication for me.
Dr. Claudia Reardon, my psychiatrist in Madison, for your exceptional care.
Dr. Erri Hewitt, my psychologist in Madison, for helping me to understand myself, and putting the pieces of the puzzle together, which empowered me in a way I didn’t think possible.
My brother Dan, for being such a kind-hearted and compassionate person. I wish I’d had the same understanding of bipolar disorder when I was young that I do now. Your memory lives on in a powerful way that will help so many others.
Mary, who had such a huge impact on my life. I am so blessed to have had you as my friend.
The friends, and even strangers, who offered me their support and did not judge me without knowing my story.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SUZY FAVOR HAMILTON is a three-time Olympian for women’s middle distance running. She is a sought-after public speaker—addressing eating disorders, mental illness, and the struggles that young athletes face—as well as a yoga instructor. Favor Hamilton lives in California and Wisconsin.
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CREDITS
COVER DESIGN BY LAYWAN KWAN
COVER PHOTOGRAPH © BY PLAINPICTURE/SILVERI
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of nonfiction. The events and experiences detailed herein are all true and have been faithfully rendered as remembered by the author, to the best of her abilities. Some names, identifying characteristics and circumstances have been changed to protect the privacy and anonymity of the individuals involved.
This book contains advice and information relating to mental health care. It should not be used to replace the advice of a trained mental health professional.
FAST GIRL. Copyright © 2015 by Suzy Favor Hamilton. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-234622-3
EPub Edition SEPTEMBER 2015 ISBN 9780062346216
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